


another shot at life

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: D/s, M/M, Married to the Job, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: John gets a new appreciation for life, and for his job, and for his boss.





	another shot at life

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thank yous to Code16 for being a sounding board and giving concrit and letting me read her parts. <3

The heat of the burning office building stings on John's back, but the light drizzle falling from the sky feels good on his face. He closes his eyes and raises his head, face turned up, letting himself feel the water dripping down into his shirt. It feels real and immediate, adrenaline putting him firmly into the moment and his body.

"Um. Hey?"

That's Erica Jackson, the number. John opens his eyes and tries to smile at her. Apparently he manages the expression better than he usually does, because she doesn't flinch. In fact, she comes closer.

She's holding a piece of paper shyly up at him. "Um. This is my number. Just in case." Her face is red, and John doesn't think the fire is at fault.

For a long moment, John stares at the paper. Erica wilts and withdraws, and John captures her hand without thinking. "Hey," he says. "It's not you, okay? It's definitely me."

"Sure," she mumbles, but she seems a little less sorry. She's probably also affected by the adrenaline rush, and she's less used to it than John is. Giving someone your number on impulse isn't the worse thing one can do, in its throes.

John gets her home. He walks back to the library, appreciating the soreness in his muscles.

"You know," Harold says when John arrives at the library, "you could go out on a date or two. I understand the difficulty, but I could manufacture you an identity that would probably hold."

John appreciates the offer, and says so. "But that's just not going to happen, Harold."

Harold stares at him, sharp eyed, like he's about to ask John why. In the end, though, Harold just turns around to his computer without another word.

~~

It gets John thinking.

His knee-jerk reaction, when he wonders why he turned Erica down, is to say that romance is for the living, and John might end up dead any moment.

But while that's technically true, it doesn't feel as viscerally, inescapably true as it felt... for a long time, before John has started working for Harold. He might die any day, but he feels more alive than he has in years.

And still, the idea of finding Jackson's phone number doesn't appeal. She seemed a nice enough person, and not unattractive even half covered in soot. But she was looking for something from him, something John didn't feel like giving, not even for one or two dates. Besides, where would he find the time?

"Guess I'm just married to the job," John says under his breath while staking out their latest number. The words feel better in his mouth than he'd have expected.

~~

As spouses go, John's job isn't bad. It's demanding, sure, but it turns out that John is a lot happier when there are demands on him, as long as he can meet them.

It's been a while since John has been in a relationship, but he seems to recall some courtship is in order. In lieu of any more fitting act, John buys Harold donuts.

"I'm not sure what brought this on," Harold says, licking jelly from the corner of his mouth, "but I can't say I disapprove."

"Just maintaining our relationship," John says cheerfully. "I'll expect flowers for our anniversary, Harold." Harold gives him a narrow-eyed look and says nothing.

(John doesn't get any flowers, but Harold quietly and efficiently replaces the mattress John tore during a nightmare. John will take that over flowers any day.)

~~

There are always little moments while on the job, and now more than ever John finds himself appreciating them: the adrenaline rush of getting to blow something up, yeah, but also smaller stuff. Walking near a bakery and getting a nose-full of warm cookie smell. The incongruous softness of fabric in the suits Harold buys him. The pleasant soreness after a good day's work when he isn't injured.

As John waits for Harold to join him, he enjoys the sunset. The pretty colors are all due to air pollution, he knows, but even so. Pretty.

John hears footsteps and the tap of a cane, and turns to ask Harold how he likes the view. But the light of the setting sun catches Harold, too, painting him gold, glinting off his polished black cane, showing off highlights in Harold's plum tie. Harold always looks a bit larger when he's playing Mr. Partridge, a trick of posture and clothing, but now John looks at him primed to see beauty, and he finds it.

"Looking handsome today, Harold," John says once he recovers his voice.

"If you say so," Harold says, but the curve of his mouth is a tiny bit pleased.

~~

It first occurs to John that he might want to consummate this marriage at 4AM, sitting at a computer terminal in an open-space office.

"What now?" John asks, staring at the command prompt ahead of him.

"Enter the flash drive's directory," Harold says, "and unzip the file in it to the main drive."

John obeys, and watches the animation as the file unzips itself to its new location. "Now what? Run the program?"

"Not yet. Open the registry, please," Harold says. The computer is secured with an air gap, and the operation is time sensitive enough anyway that neither of them want Harold to work on remote access from a cellular modem. Harold watches the screen through a tiny camera on John's lapel. "Now go into HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE..."

Harold is good at this, giving John orders at a pace John can follow without feeling sluggish: no room for thought between one instruction and the next one. As though his arm is an extension of Harold's will. As though his entire body is. 

When there's a lull - Harold taking a drink of water to clear his throat - John finds that he's warm all over, from his feet to his collarbone. He feels something like numbness, only pleasant. Only when his heavy, constant distress returns does John recognize that numbness as its absence. 

"Mr. Reese? I was saying, you need to copy config.ini to c:\program files..."

John blinks and returns to his task.

~~

For the most part, John can't even imagine having sex with Harold. It's his mind protecting him, he knows, keeping John from wanting in too much detail what he can't have. But sometimes there are... glimpses. A ghost sensation of a hand in his hair, blunt nails scratching up his back. Harold asking him to unzip more than files.

But for the most part, he just likes listening to Harold talk. It's soothing. Not in a radiophonic voice kind of way: in a way that everything that Harold says feels like safe harbor, like not having to watch for the ground collapsing under his weight. Because Harold has his back, yeah, but more than that. Whatever Harold says, it will be true, and it will be _right_. John hasn't known him to falter in all the months they've known each other. 

~~

Two of Hooper's goons are down and John's making progress on the third when he hears the back door squeal. He tenses and looks for the backup that must be coming, but it seems like the other goons ran away.

He finishes up the third goon and goes to check their computers, at which point he takes off running.

"Finch!" he taps his earpiece on the way to the car. Nothing but static: Harold warned him that comms might be affected while Harold worked on the device Hooper is after. "Finch, there's a tracker in the carrying case, Hooper's men are on their way to you. Get out."

Still static. As John steps on the gas, he can only hope Harold heard him.

He arrives at the safe house and he can see a faint blur of Harold from the street, sketchy through the giant frosted glass window. As though Harold, who is the most paranoid man John knows, didn't think to stay out of possible shooters' line of sight.

Hooper's people might be anywhere. No time to lose. John hurries inside. "Finch! We have to--"

Harold stands up. "Mr. Reese? What on Earth--?"

John tackles him before he can finish the sentence, just as he hears the window break. 

A few more shots ring above them. John does his best to get them both behind the couch: Harold, once the initial shock is past, crawls along with him.

"Tracker in the carrying case," John says. 

Harold purses his lips. "I gathered. Did you call for backup?"

"Yeah. We wait, now."

And so they wait, with John holding his body right above Harold's. Harold was plainly not expecting company: he's wearing shorts and a ratty t-shirt, and the warmth of him comes through the thin fabric. They're close enough that John can feel Harold's pulse, 

In a low voice, John asks, "Are you okay? How's your back?" 

Harold groans quietly. "I'll live," he says, wry. "A hot shower might help, I'll admit."

"We'll see about getting you one." John stands up to return a few shots, then crouches back down over Harold. 

~~

After the hit men have been dealt with, they drive to another safe house for that promised shower. Harold goes in. John waits for him and tries not to think about Harold's naked body under the water spray, or of what Harold might say if John opened the door and joined him.

The thoughts are shockingly forward, fueled with the recent sense memory of Harold's closeness, and they will not let go no matter how much John tries to convince himself it's impossible. 

So he takes the other route. He waits for Harold to leave the shower (and tries not to be disappointed when Harold emerges in a suit). John showers as well, and as long as he does, he allows himself to imagine walking close to Harold, covering Harold with his body, burying his face in Harold's neck. It's not very long.

He gets out of the shower in nothing but briefs. "Hey, Harold," he says.

Harold is sitting on the couch, typing furiously on his laptop. He looks up. His eyes widen just a tiny bit at John's state of undress. "Yes?"

"Want a blowjob?" John says, and braces himself for the coming rejection.

Harold is silent for a moment. Then he says, "As a matter of fact, I would. If you're offering one, however, it seems prudent to discuss matters before we go further." He pats the place on the couch beside him.

John, struck silent, walks to him. He had not planned this far.

"First of all, may I ask what brought this on?" Harold asks.

John is still too shocked to respond immediately. He tries to form an answer, he does, but thoughts mix up in his head until what comes out is, "I'm alive. And you're alive. We're both alive."

He's expecting mockery, or at least a raised eyebrow. But Harold only says, "I see," and then, "That's true enough. For the time being, at least." His mouth twists up in a rueful smile.

"I really want to kiss you," John says, stunned into the admission.

Harold turns and scoots closer to John. "Then do so." 

Harold's mouth is softer than John would have thought, his face smooth - he must have shaved in the shower. John's hands rise to cup Harold's cheeks, to verify this, and one climbs further up into Harold's spiky-soft hair. 

"Are you particularly interested in the act of a blowjob?" Harold says once they break apart for air. "Or was it more of a shorthand for sexual activities in general?"

John can't seem to catch his breath. "Tell me what to do." His voice is low, almost a growl.

Harold considers, then shrugs. "I suppose a blow job is as good as anything else. Unbutton my pants."

John is worried his hands might shake, but they're steady enough. He opens up Harold's pants.

"Go to your knees." Harold's voice is a little detached, like he's walking John through using an exploit to demolish a firewall. It's just as easy to follow his commands. "Get my cock out. Put your lips to the head."

Harold talks him through the entire blowjob, telling John when to stop and get some air, when to take him in deep. Even towards the end, when Harold's voice goes breathy and high, it still washes over John, filling him with certainty, with the knowledge of what he needs to do next. 

As he comes Harold goes quiet, and John focuses on swallowing. It's not long, though, before Harold's hand rests heavy on John's head and Harold says, "Shall I continue telling you what to do?"

John nods, jerkily.

"Mind you, I'm not averse to you showing initiative," Harold says. "Nor do I mind if you'd rather wait for instructions."

Some powerful emotion wells up in John, one he can't name but wants more and more of. He takes Harold's free hand in his, running his mouth over Harold's knuckles, inhaling the scent of Harold's skin.

Harold's hand tightens in his hair. "Take off your underwear," Harold says. "Take your cock in hand."

There's nothing, then, besides Harold's voice in his ears. John's hand feels like it isn't his, possessed by Harold's words, moving of its own volition - of Harold's volition, John merely a conduit for Harold's voice to flow through. His own hand is Harold's instrument in bringing John pleasure.

"And now," Harold says, "I will count to three, and you will orgasm. One." His fingers roam through John's hair. John's hand is moving desperately fast, sticking to the rhythm Harold last instructed him to keep. 

"Two." 

John's breath is ragged. He's not going to make it to three, he's going to fail--

"Three," Harold says, the word catching John just as the first stream of come shoots out of his cock. 

Harold lets John rest his head on Harold's thigh, after. John closes his eyes to better focus on Harold's hand running over his neck and back, like he's sweeping John for injuries. John is pretty sure he doesn't have any, definitely none that matter.

"I still have questions, mind you," Harold says. But he keeps petting John, even when the only response John gives is a muffled noise. He lets John just be, lets him do nothing but feel the sated thrum in his body and the peace in his mind.


End file.
